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How might you measure one's true feeling or those felt towards him.

Consider it is neither by insult nor injury,

for both are fairly fleeting in the fashion of passion.

However, it is by man's own hand in the predetermination,

the post-fortification which cements his prejudice upon a monument of malice, a shrine, an effigy, a tomb. It is brick by brick, choice by choice that conviction is constructed, that the matter or man is sealed for life, and that the final pleas for redress are stifled, silent.

In this story, foul feelings are fermented, disguised and distilled, tainting with the bitter

flavor of revenge. The Cask of a Monteallo by Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1846.

The thousand injuries of Fortunato, I had borne as best I could.

But when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.

You who so well know the nature of my soul will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat.

At length, I would be avenged.

This was a point definitely settled. But the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish,

but punish with impunity.

A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redressor.

It is equally unredressed when the Avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him,

who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato caused it out my goodwill.

I continued, as was my want to smile in his face,

and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

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